Histories

They ask me why I am afraid of boys...why I shake and stutter and turn my gaze to the floor...and every time I say that I do not know. I’m a troubled soul and such words were not meant to be voiced, but fall from my hands in a gentle ink scrawl that utters far more than can be offered otherwise. You see, I am afraid of boys because histories never truly leave us. As long as they exist, the memories of lives past will always remain in our minds...memories that refuse change but often offer a valuable yet dreaded insight into the philosophy of humanity. I hold within me the lives of all women throughout the ages. I am myself, yet am the innocent, wide-eyed girl of only thirteen years old desperately picking up the coins that were thrown at her face before the next man comes into the pleasure house demanding a pretty little one...holding back the salt burning her eyes as she stares at the stone ceiling, memorizing every crack so that she can hide how much they are ripping from her...being told “shut up and take it fool, you are good for nothing else.” I am the poor house maid who must keep her mouth shut or lose her pay, while the master shoves her skirt over her eyes and rapes her...leaving her shuddering body lying there when he’s finished with her then slapping her ass with his cruel grin when his wife isn’t there to see...knowing that there is no power within her to end this torment. I am the teenager clothed in a tight, glittering dress, looking in the mirror and adoring the way it brings out her eyes and reflects the light...walking home from the local bar thinking of a boy she may love, when suddenly a hand covers her mouth and she is shoved into a building stinking of sweat and tears as they tear off her dignity and tie her hands, taking their turns at her body and laughing as she screams and fights...in the end she lies still on the cold concrete...wishing she were dead...wishing they would have just killed her. I am the gentle, caring wife who turns out the lights and slips cautiously into bed with her husband...this time he doesn’t even bother to kiss her...as his tight grip pins her down, the movement of his hips against hers becomes cold and feral and she is only an object again...closing her swollen eyes as tight as possible so that she can escape into another world...carefully hiding the bruises the next morning. I am the women whose bodies became “spoils of war” and all those trafficked for the high price of their sweet virginity. And they ask me why I am afraid of men. By God’s law they are so much stronger than us. It is a true torment. We may be great in our minds and actions, but we will always be objects with a purpose of slavery and reproduction to them. If we rebel, men need only beat us and scorn us and rape us to put our courage back in its place. This is the bitter reality of it all. They may state that not all men are like that...not all men view women that way...but it is in their eyes. Even the prettiest and holiest gazes hold within what marks them all...and it cannot be helped...because the histories never truly leave us.